


Past Failures, Present Regrets

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e11 Mac + Fallout + Jack, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Platonic Bedsharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26632120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: After the events of 3x11 Mac + Fallout + Jack, Mac second guesses the actions they took on their first mission in Jakarta and deals with nightmares of their captivity in the bunker.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 71





	Past Failures, Present Regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pandi19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandi19/gifts).



> For Pandi19 without giving anything away, one of our conversations sparked this idea. It turned out a little different than I thought, but I hope you enjoy it. And thanks for helping me with the title!
> 
> Written for the septembermacgyverwhump challenge on tumblr.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

He’s standing so close to Jack their shoulders are nearly touching. Mac shivers and nudges a step closer, bumping against Jack lightly. Jack weaves and bumps him back. Through the thin material of their once pressed dress shirts, he can feel the warmth of Jack’s skin. Strong. Alive. 

Mac focuses on that instead of the chill against the back of his neck. 

The bunker wasn’t cold. Especially not when he diverted power from the HVAC. Or at the end with the way his heart raced. Furiously pounding with the fear that somehow he’d miscalculate. That something would go wrong. 

The desert sun beating down on them isn’t either. 

But he can’t stop the intermittent tremors. 

Squinting into the sunshine reflecting against the wings of the jet as it taxis toward them, his dry eyes burn. He doesn’t have enough moisture in his body to create lubricating tears. Luckily for him, that means he doesn’t have enough for the phantom emotional ones that prickle behind his eyelids. 

He used up the last of them, crying over Jack’s corpse. Convincing their captor that he shot Jack.

Killed him. 

He sways, or maybe Jack does. The effects of the drugs and the sleep deprivation. The aching pain from the car wreck and the throb of a headache. Their shoulders brush, leaning against each other, and neither pulls away. Offering and receiving strength. 

They survived. He knows this.

Though he can feel Jack’s strong shoulder against his, he shifts enough to view his partner. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. 

“What the hell, Mac?” 

He jumps as Bozer’s voice reaches him, so focused on watching Jack breathe that he misses the plane coming to a halt and Bozer disembarking.

Bozer is stalking towards them. Dark eyes worried, scanning the bruised and bedraggled pair that are, to his great relief, at least moving under their own power. Though barely by the looks of them.

“Hey, Boze,” one corner of Mac’s mouth turns up, twitching dangerously with emotions that if he lets out he won’t be able to contain again. 

Bozer scrutinizes him before he pulls Mac in for a hug. “You were supposed to be on vacation. Jack hasn’t shut up about Vegas and the Lancelot suite in a month.” 

Mac swallows hard. His mouth is dry and tongue thick. It hurts his throat too much to speak. 

“Got an offer we couldn’t refuse to visit the Griggs’ Funhouse of Horror,” Jack says, stepping forward and accepting his own hug.

Mac sees the way Jack holds himself back. His body rigid where he normally envelopes the recipient of his hugs. Hands that usually reach up to cradle heads and necks, to pat shoulders, and squeeze tight, are loose and lower. Jack assured him that he didn’t break anything, allowing Mac to check for himself, but there's a wince when Bozer pulls him close. He’s hurting, because of their escape plan. As if he can feel Mac’s eyes on him, hear Mac’s thoughts, Jack lifts his head and meets Mac’s worried eyes. Any hint of pain gone from his features in an instant. 

Jack disentangles himself and reaches out, resting a hand on Mac’s shoulder. It’s warm. Solid. Alive. 

“Then you need a better travel agent,” Bozer says, swiping at his suddenly moist eyes. 

“Matty’s never going to let us go on vacation again,” Jack shakes his head morosely.

“Not without a TAC team for back up,” Mac mumbles. 

“Are you bleeding?” Bozer eyes widen comically. “Mac, Jack’s bleeding-”

There’s a stab of pain through Mac’s heart as the words steal his breath away. The memory of the way Jack’s features went slack after the shot. Blood blooming on his chest. The stillness of his body on the floor. 

“No, I’m not.”

“He’s not.” Mac repeats like he’s telling himself. Reassuring himself. Jack’s alive.

“Had to trick Griggs into thinking I was dead.”

“It’s- we made a blood pack.”

“You’d be proud, Bozer. Took everything I learned acting in your movies and added it to my performance,” Jack squeezes Mac’s shoulder. “It- it felt a little too real.”

“Yeah,” Mac chokes on the word. The yelp of pain as Jack went down, the hollow echo of the fire extinguisher hitting Jack in the chest, propelling him back. The slap of skin against the concrete floor.

The rest of their recap and reunion is interrupted by medics joining their group and a quick repeat of the conversation they had with Bozer. 

“I’m fine,” Mac shrugs off the hands that reach for him, stepping close to Jack. “I can walk. He’s probably got a few broken ribs.”

“Mac,” Jack squeaks in betrayal, but edging closer to Mac as he avoids the medic that has zeroed in on him. “His side of the car was t-boned.”

“You both look like you need medical attention,” Bozer scolds. “And Matty sent me along to make sure you aren’t going to weasel out of it, so let’s go.” He leads the way to the plane, glancing behind to make sure Mac and Jack are slowly following. 

Jack turns, looking over his shoulder at Mac as he moves up the aisle, dropping into the double seat across from Mac’s usual spot on the couch. 

Mac doesn’t hesitate, sitting in the seat next to him. One of the medics, Jake, looks like he’s about to protest. Ask one of them to move, for privacy, for ease of treatment, for some other nonsense reason to separate Mac from Jack. Mac’s brow furrows, steeling his gaze ready to argue whatever bullshit reason the medic will spit out when his mouth opens.

Leah gives her head a quick shake and the request dies on Jake’s lips.

“Ah, so you have heard of us,” Jack teases, easing himself back against the seat, pointing between Mac and himself.

“That it’s easier to just give in because the two of you have codependency issues and will pass out while insisting the other is hurt worse?” Bozer asks. 

“What?” An irked look crosses Mac’s face, bristling slightly at the teasing. 

“When you work with enough field agents, you learn they’re going to spend their whole exam worrying about the other. It’s easier for everyone if you keep them together.” Leah flashes a penlight into Jack’s blinking eyes

“See, it ain’t just us. Nothing wrong with a little co-dependency between partners.”

A half-smile quirks on Mac’s lips as he offers his arm to the medic crouching next to him, allowing the blood pressure cuff to be snuggly fastened around his bicep. 

The cuff tightens around his arm, he’s always surprised by the ache that accompanies such a simple action. There’s a squeeze on his other arm, Jack adjusting in his seat, his free arm making contact with Mac. Gripping Mac’s forearm, looking for reassurance that Mac is okay. Both more shaken than they want to admit. 

“Your blood pressure is low. Are you dizzy?” Jake asks, pulling his stethoscope from his ears.

Jack shifts in his seat to get a better look at Mac who hedges.

The statement, “that could be a side effect from the ketamine,” doesn’t have the desired effect and the story is eked out, piece by piece. 

Mac opens his shirt and leans back, feeling Jack’s gaze on him.

“Oh, hoss,” Jack murmurs. 

He knows his right side is a mess of bruises. But he also knows he’s got nothing on the bruises that mar Jack’s chest. The ones that are his fault. That he caused. From his idea. 

Jake presses his stethoscope against Mac’s chest and then abdomen, before palpating, searching for distention and other signs of internal bleeding from the crash that could be the culprit for his hypotension. 

“Dehydration and sleep deprivation. I’m okay,” Mac insists, but doesn’t pull away from the exam, recognizing the medics have a job to do. “The crash was days ago, if I had internal bleeding I’d be worse.” Those words don’t have the desired effect either. He flushes, feeling Jack and Bozer’s eyes on him, knowing they’re worried. He’s never gotten used to the idea of someone having concerns about his health. 

Mac leans forward when Leah examines Jack’s chest. He knows what the bruises look like. Made Jack open his shirt so he could see before they tried moving Griggs. Flecks of dried blood remain from their special effects. 

The medics relay their findings to the doctor at the Phoenix, give them each a bottle of water and tell them to rest. 

Jack’s eyes are red. He’s squinting in a way that betrays the headache he’s trying to fight. 

“Go ahead and take the couch, hoss.”

Mac blinks slowly, each one longer than the last. He’s slumped against the seat, utter exhaustion robbing him of his last vestiges of strength. He couldn't move if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to. He’s not getting any sleep unless Jack is within reach. 

“I’m good here,” Mac accepts the blanket Bozer hands him and sinks deeper into his seat, sprawling over the armrest that separates them, forearm brushing against Jack’s. Relieved at his presence, the warmth of his skin. Seeking comfort he doesn’t know how to ask for, but Jack gives him anyway, scooting closer. 

“We’re good, Mac,” Jack murmurs.

Jack’s voice is soothing and Mac’s eyes are heavy and he finds himself drifting. 

* * *

It’s a sick, wet sound. 

Muffled. Soft. 

But it drowns out the thunk of metal and crackling, shattering of bone that echoes in the room of cement block and iron. 

Echoes in Mac’s ears. Rattling.

Reverberating. 

Jack’s gasp. 

A surprised puff of air forced out violently between parted lips. 

Breaths come in two parts. The inhalation doesn’t follow. Not really. A shaky groan. Choked gasps that don’t quell the body's demand for air. Panicked, pained huffs. 

“Mac,” Jack begs. 

Jack never begs. 

“Please.”

He reaches out for Mac, fingers trembling, their grasp weak. 

His teeth are stained red. 

This- no-

There has to be something. Mac can fix this. Has to fix this. 

He’s fixed so many things. Things that didn’t matter. Replaced parts and pieces. Children’s toys and old radios and rocking chairs. Jack is more important. More important than the car engines he’s rebuilt and the bombs he’s disarmed. He - he- 

Mac can do something. He can-

He leaps to his feet. His vision darkens as the world tilts. He stumbles through the bunker.  Upending the bag marked with a taunting red cross that should be a beacon of hope, but there’s nothing. 

That’s his specialty. Build something out of nothing.  


He drops to his knees, shaking with frustration.

Nothing he can use to escape.

Nothing he can use to save Jack.

The only time his ability to save lives really matters and he can’t.

Jack begs.

Jack has never begged. 

He coughs. Frothy, pink bubbles over his lips. 

Jack is dying. Scared. In pain. Drowning in his own blood. Knowing that when it mattered, Mac was as useless as everyone always knew he was. The reason everyone left eventually.

The reason Jack was going to be torn from him. 

Jack is dying. Light fading from his eyes as Mac watches. Clawing at the hole in Jack’s chest, there has to be something. 

Mac lifts him from the cold floor, settling him against his chest, easing Jack’s breathing. Offering what little comfort he can, giving Jack a few extra, precious seconds.

Giving Mac just another minute. To find a solution. Something to keep Jack with him.

And to fail. 

Because Jack begs Mac not to make him die like this. Not to make him drown. Not to watch death creep closer from where it’s been stalking him in the shadows for years.

And Mac can’t even give him that. 

Jack's quivering chest goes still under his hands. Hands that are the only thing holding Jack up. Hands that aren't ready to let go.

Mac gasps awake. 

It's more violent than that. 

He throws himself forward, sitting upright, squirming in his seat. Twisting in the confined space, legs trapped, tangled in the blanket. Bile burning in his throat as he swallows hard against the horror he’s reliving.

“Jack,” he choked. Eyes wide.

They're safe. He knows this.

The dreamy fog lifts. The haze that hovers in his memories of the block bunker wafting away. The last effects of the ketamine leaving his system, easing the spasmodic jumps in his brain, that, even used to his usual leaps of logic, left him confused and dizzy. 

His thinking is clearer.

He can process the stimuli his body is giving him. Can start to trust his senses again. 

They’re safe.

On the jet. He can hear the familiar rumble of the engines.

Jack is with him. Alive.

Jack's steady voice breaking through the panic that grips his heart, the rasp of his heaving breaths. Mac’s never shook so hard in his life, feeling like he’s going to crumble to the floor even with the seat under him.

"It's alright. It's alright. You're okay. You're safe," Jack murmurs in that easy drawl of his. "You're safe, hoss. I promise."

Jack is leaning close. One hand on his shoulder. The other reaches around and cups Mac's neck, thumb brushing his jaw. 

There’s a rustle somewhere behind him, but Mac can’t take his eyes off of Jack. 

Jack looks up, just over Mac’s shoulder, and gives a small shake of his head, sending away anyone who would interrupt. Keeping Mac from being further overwhelmed. 

"Can you take a breath with me? Nice and easy," Jack inhales. 

And Mac panics as he hears Jack take an exaggerated breath, meant to calm him but it sounds too much like Jack’s labored breathing in the bunker. His eyes slam shut. His own breathing coarse and ragged. 

"No, no, no, no," he mumbles between sharp gasps.

"No, hey. Hoss, hey, that's not how this works. You breathe with me, okay? Let's try that again. You're okay." Jack murmurs. “You’re okay.”

Mac gnarls in frustration. He knows he's okay. It was never concern for his life. He reaches up, catching the hand Jack holds against his neck, wrapping his fingers around Jack's wrist. Jack's pulse thrums under his fingers. 

He focuses on that. Steady. Constant and reliable, like Jack. 

“Do you know where we are?”

“Plane,” Mac’s voice is husky. 

Mac's heart rate slows, keeping time with Jack’s. The agitation that clawed at his chest for escape receding into the depths of his darkest thoughts, stubbornly locked away. 

“Can you open your eyes for me?”

Taking a deep breath, Mac peels his eyelids back. Jack’s face is a few inches from his own, eyes worried. His expression soft, open. Filled with familiar concern that he doesn’t know what to do with, how to respond to. 

Mac’s gaze flicks from Jack’s face to the blood streaked on his shirt. 

“Nightmare?” Jack asks, ducking his head to meet Mac’s eyes. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” The eye contact is too much for how vulnerable he’s feeling and his gaze skips away again. Jack’s tenderness is too much. He doesn’t deserve it. Or the caring. Not when he’s responsible for Jack hurting. 

“Want to talk about it?”

Mac shrugs. 

Jack waits. His thumb continues its rhythmic path against Mac’s jaw. 

He’s been more honest with Jack than he’s ever been with anyone in his life. Been through some of the worst moments of his life with Jack. Owes Jack his life, several times over if anyone is keeping count anymore. The man has dropped everything for Mac. Risked everything for Mac. Deserves the truth and yet, as Mac searches his face, lines of exhaustion etched deep. The crease of pain between his brows. Deep purple crescents beneath his eyes, Mac can’t burden him more right now. 

“No,” Mac pulls away from the comforting touch. “No, I’m good, just a nightmare.”

Jack cants his head, clearly not believing Mac’s claims. His eyes narrow, considering, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I expect I’ll be having a few of those myself.” His hand, now free from Mac, drops heavily against the seat. 

Mac frowns. Jack already dreams about dying too much. He hates that he’s added to Jack’s nightmare repertoire.

“Can’t believe, Griggs and Hadley, all those years we thought they were dead.”

“Should have checked,” Mac mumbles, trying to remember, through the haze of the explosion and firefight and anxiety of his first mission as an agent, what happened at the warehouse. When things went wrong, and how they went so badly wrong but the events are a misshapen, spotty memory. He can remember the words of his After Action Report verbatim, like seeing the photograph of a place he can barely remember visiting.

“Yeah,” Jack scowls. “Never trusted Waller. Shouldn’t have left them.”

Mac swallows. Jack stayed behind, letting Griggs and Hadley intercept Samrozi’s men alone because he had to watch Mac’s back. Because Mac didn’t carry a gun. Setting in motion the events that led them to the bunker. That almost cost Jack his life. 

“You- you were distracted,” Mac mumbles eyes down, missing the flinch that crosses Jack’s face at the words. 

Jack was stuck back on Overwatch, a job that Mac now realizes was beneath Jack’s skill level, wasted babysitting one little bomb nerd in the desert, wasted again in this warehouse in Jakarta while Mac disarmed the nukes. 

Instead of backing up Hadley and Griggs when they needed it, Jack was stuck inside because his partner was too green to be left alone. A liability. 

Jack clears his throat, leaning back, dazed. “Could have- could have been more focused, I guess…” 

Mac sighs. “The weak link…” An ops team was only as strong as their most vulnerable member. “Wasn’t… wasn’t ready.” 

Mac meets Jack’s gaze for a moment, sees the grief there before it’s shuttered away and replaced with exhaustion and a slow nod. A pang of grief confirming what he'd feared Jack had known then. The reason Jack had refused to leave his side. Mac hadn’t been field ready. 

Jack swallows. “Should have done a milk run, ease into it. Or insisted on more field readiness training, just thought… fresh from the Army, I could handle it.” 

Mac tries not the flinch at the words. At Jack’s confirmation that he wasn’t ready. That it’s his fault Hadley’s dead and Grigg’s lost his mind. He’s responsible for the torture of two good men. Three, if he counts Jack. 

Jack has always been honest with him, offered constructive criticism, feedback on those early missions and every aspect of his training. Brutally honest at times, but not always objective, putting Mac’s safety ahead of their mission every time even during training. 

Maybe that’s why it took all these years, and Jack’s defenses torn down by the distress and despair of the bunker for the truth to come out. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Leah taps lightly on the seatback, announcing her presence. Her brow lowers in concern, assessing their mental state as well as their physical. “We’ll be landing in about thirty minutes. I spoke with Director Weber, after you finish at Medical you can go home and get some rest. She’ll call you about a debrief in the morning.”

“Sure,” Jack nods, not even protesting the mandate to report to Medical. “Thanks, Leah.”

She gives them both another assessing gaze, before nodding and heading back to her seat for landing. 

“What are you thinking? Pizza? That new Thai place you like?” Jack scrubs a hand across his face, wincing when the motion tugs on the aching muscles of his chest.

“I think…” Mac bites his lip, watching Jack rub his chest to soothe the ache. Jack needs to sleep. In a real bed, his own bed with his thousand thread count sheets, not camp out at Mac’s house, no matter how much Mac might want him there. “I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“You need to eat something, hoss.”

Mac shakes his head. Jack still feels the need to take care of him, “I will, but you should go home. Sleep in your bed.”

“Oh,” Jack blinks. He licks his lips, searching Mac’s face. “Yeah, okay.”

Mac nods. Jack needs to rest. Heal. Not camp out at Mac’s house and where he’ll spend all his time worrying. Mac pushes aside his own needs, like Jack does for him. There’s a nudge of pain at how quickly Jack agrees. 

A pang of misery that Mac obstinately shoves aside.

It’s for the best. 

* * *

He knows how to use a gun. 

The assumption that he can’t because he doesn’t isn’t an inaccuracy he cares to address. Let people infer what they want, he doesn’t have to explain his reasons or correct their flawed conclusions. 

They talked about it before they even talked about making the move from the Army to DXS. Director Thornton was quick to accept their negotiation on that point for the coup of gaining talent like Dalton and MacGyver. 

“Are you sure?” Mac had asked during a late night on the deck, long after Bozer had gone to bed, as they discussed the multiple offers thrown in their direction, the mission statement of DXS, and continuing their partnership in a similar albeit different arena. 

“Wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t, hoss,” Jack promised. “I watch your back. Besides I’m always looking for a challenge. Taking out four guys with two bullets isn’t even my most impressive shooting.”

Mac shook his head, studying Jack in the fire glow, looking for a shred of insincerity. For a fragment of doubt. 

“Greatest weapon in the world is between your ears. If you can keep doing your thing I can keep taking our four guys with two bullets.”

He qualifies with his weapon quarterly. A requirement for any active field agent, but aside from those trips to the shooting range, his service weapon remains locked in the armory. Jack won’t let him strip it for parts. 

“Are you sure?” Mac asked again when they made it home from that first mission. The one where a pair of partners who had been together for nearly a decade didn’t. Where Jack stayed with Mac to watch his back instead of going to back up Griggs and Hadley. 

This time in Jack’s apartment, he studied Jack’s profile in the blue light from the television. 

“I watch your back,” Jack promised again. 

And he did. 

While Mac disarmed bombs and rebuilt electronics, Jack stood guard. Trusting him to save the world. Never doubting, no matter the mess they found themselves in, Mac could fix it. Mac would save them. 

The gun is heavy in Mac’s hand. Skin slick against the grip. He holds it the way Jack taught him. Jack cautiously offered a tip the first time Mac joined him at the shooting range. Helped him get more comfortable with the weapon in his hand. Just because Mac doesn’t use a gun, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be comfortable with it should the unthinkable happen and he is forced to fire one. 

His hand doesn’t shake as he lifts it.

It doesn’t feel as heavy as it should. The weight of the entire world should be in his hand, but it rises easily. Hardly a struggle. 

It should ache as he sights down the barrel. 

It should tear his guts out, but he feels numb. 

No, worse than that, he feels nothing. Even as his brain is screaming at him that this is wrong. 

Finger moving to the trigger. 

No. 

He can’t.

There is another way. There’s always another way.

Breath catches in his lungs as he listens to the cries of pain. Fear. Begging for help. For relief. The last thing Mac can give him. Even if it will kill Mac in the process. 

Jack has given everything for Mac. Without hesitation. Without question. And now, he’s asking for one thing. Don’t make him live these final moments in fear and pain. Don’t make him suffer any longer. Mac can grant Jack’s wish. Give Jack that peace that will cost Mac any hope of feeling his own. 

He knows how to use a gun. And he’s a good shot. Never missing his target. 

He squeezes the trigger. 

It’s a sickening sound. A muffled aborted gasp, cutting off too soon.

The echoing crack of the bullet reverberates in the room of concrete and metal doors. The gunfire pierces Mac’s ears.

The dull thud of a body slumping to the floor. The soft, wet sound of blood on concrete. 

The sound of the bullet continues echoing. 

Mac drops to the floor, blood soaking the knees of his dress pants. A shaking hand covers the wound. Jack’s chest is still. Quiet. No haunting labored breaths. 

No steady beat beneath his fingers. A wave of loneliness sweeps over him. 

Mac pounds against the door. He did what they asked. Now let him go. Let him take Jack home. Lay him to rest in the space next to his pop. It doesn’t mean much to Mac, but he knows it would mean something to Jack. 

Jack was always so sure his pop was listening. Watching out for him, somehow. Mac doesn’t have that kind of faith in the afterlife. 

If anyone could make it back, it would be Jack. And before all of this, Mac would believe Jack could do it. Assign himself as Mac’s guardian angel. On Mac’s six, as he always was. But now, when Mac failed him, would he bother. 

Mac’s legs can barely support him. Vision blurry from exhaustion. Tears sting in his dry, reddened eyes. He bangs on the door again, growling in grief and rage. Griggs won and it only took hours, not years for him to crack. 

The door swings open and Mac’s mouth gapes. His knees go weak and he stumbles, landing hard against the doorframe, jarring him from the nightmare he’d thought he was still having.

“Easy, hoss,” Jack catches him under one arm, like he always does. Doesn’t hesitate, springing into action. Steadying him. Supporting him. “What’s going on?” 

Mac feels any remaining color drain from his face. “Jack?” 

“Yeah, bud,” Jack reaches up, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You okay? You’re freezing.”

“I-” Mac blinks hard. He shakes his head, trying to clear the cocoon of exhaustion cobwebs around his brain. “Jack?”

Jack is frowning. Scanning Mac then cupping his cheek and peering into his eyes. “You drive over here like this?” 

Mac looks down, his t-shirt soaked and his feet bare. He’s shivering as he drips a puddle on the floor. “Um, I guess so.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Jack tugs him forward, shutting the door firmly behind them and locking it. “Are you okay?” 

Mac stands in the middle of the room, unsettled, shifting his weight and staring at Jack as though it’s been years since he’s seen him. Or like he’s seeing a ghost. 

“Hey, bud, is there something going on the docs missed? You’re scaring me.”

“I’m fine,” Mac answers by rote. 

“Debatable, but you’re soaked to the skin and that I can fix,” Jack says, guiding him forward and pushing him gently to sit on the couch. “Stay here, alright? I’ll be right back.” He pauses for a moment, making sure Mac isn’t going to pass out the moment his body doesn’t have to continue the job of keeping him upright, then heads into his bedroom. Scrambling through the dresser for a pair of sweatpants, and a warm shirt. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, grabbing a towel for Mac’s hair.

In the darkened hallway, Jack jumps a foot when he looks up and sees Mac standing in the doorway. 

“Jack?” Mac whispers. He couldn’t stay in the dim living room alone. Had to make sure that when Jack left his sight, he didn’t vanish into the unknown. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m right here. Just getting you some dry clothes. Told ya I’d be right back.” Jack says, holding out the shirt.

Mac nods absently. Jack always keeps his promises. 

“Alright, well come here,” Jack says when Mac makes no move to accept the clothes or step further into the bedroom. 

Mac eyes him warily and Jack holds his palms up as he approaches. 

“Can I help you with the shirt?”

Mac nods. 

Jack tugs the wet t-shirt over Mac’s head, tossing it in the direction of the clothes hamper. It lands with a thwap against the hardwood floor. 

“Arms up.” 

Mac obeys and Jack wrestles the dry shirt onto him. Then steadies Mac as he helps him change into the sweat pants. A routine born and perfected by many years and too many injuries. 

He leads Mac to sit on the edge of the bed and throws the towel over his head. Scuffing the towel over Mac’s head cautiously, wary of a missed head injury. Jack uses the opportunity to search for bumps or tender areas on his scalp as he shakes the water from Mac’s hair. 

“Okay, bud, I gave you your minute. Now, I need some answers or we’re going to make a run to medical, because you’re really scaring me now.”

Mac takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

“You aren’t getting rid of me that easily,” Jack tries to go for levity. Defuse the situation. 

“The blood and… watching you lay there.”

“The bunker? Mac, it was a con. Brilliantly scripted and acted. You did good.”

“I killed my best friend.” 

“Mac,” Jack dips his head, catching Mac’s eye. “I’m still here. I promise.”

“Can I-” Mac’s voice cracks. He looks up, blue eyes damp with grief. He can see Jack standing before him, and he looks so real. Alive. But he also saw Jack, lying on the floor, killed by his hand. And he looked so… dead. “Can I check?”

Jack blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever you need buddy.” 

Mac reaches out, his hand trembles. He hesitates, looking up and Jack gives him an encouraging smile. Mac’s fingers curl back. What if? What if he reaches out and doesn’t find a pulse?

Mac shakes his head. He’s finally lost it. 

Jack’s hand closes around his, guiding him the last few inches and holding Mac’s hand against his chest, over his heart. 

“Still here.”

Mac closes his eyes, letting the strong beat thump through his fingers. Jack’s heart. His chest rises and falls with each breath. It’s warm beneath his touch. He lets out a shuddering breath. 

“This is the nightmare that you had on the plane.”

Mac nods. 

“I’m sorry, Mac,” Jack whispers. 

“My plan.”

“No, I mean, the whole thing. The whole damn thing. The bunker, if I’d just checked on them, told Waller to shove it, got you to safety, and then went back to make sure…” Jack shakes his head. “None of this would have happened. You were right, I wasn’t focused. First mission back in the game and I fucked it up. I don’t blame you for not being able to trust me.”

Mac blinks in surprise and dismay. “What?”

“You were right. I wasn’t ready to go back in the field.” 

“I never thought that,” Mac’s forehead creases in confusion.

“On the plane. Said I was distracted-”

“Because you had to worry about me messing up. You couldn’t go back up Hadley and Griggs because I was distracted by disarming the nukes, didn’t have a gun. You were stuck watching my back.”

“I always watch your back,” Jack answered instantly. “That’s what I do, Mac. That’s my only job.”

Mac shakes his head with a soft scoff. “No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is. Making sure you’re safe. Everything else comes second. Thought you knew that?”

Mac licks his lips. “If I’d been more field ready maybe you could have…”

“I’d do the same thing today. Not because I don’t trust you, or think you can’t handle yourself, I know that you can, but because you are my partner,” Jack pokes a double tap on Mac’s chest with his finger. “You watch my back, I watch yours.”

Mac gives a wry smile. “You go kaboom, I go kaboom.”

“Damn right,” Jack smiles back. “You’ve more than proved yourself over the years. Probably don’t even need me anymore, but I’m an old dog, and this is the only trick I know.”

“I’ll always need you, Jack…” Mac licks his lips, dropping his gaze. He takes a deep breath. This kind of honesty, this vulnerability doesn’t come easily, even after all these years. “There’s no one else I trust as much as you. Couldn’t have done… any of this without you.”

Jack’s eyes are moist as he watches Mac. “Damn, kid, you trying to make me cry?” He brushes his eyes with a soft, overwrought giggle, then claps Mac’s shoulder. “Alright come on, budge up there.” 

Mac’s mouth puckers in confusion as Jack turns down the comforter. 

“Look, I’m not letting you leave until you get at least eight hours of sleep. I don’t want to know what kind of traffic laws you broke driving over here. Hope you sleep-drive better than you awake-drive.”

Mac hesitates.

“And I wasn’t getting any kind of sleep without you nearby. Everything just hit a little too close, thinking I might lose you, wondering how it would have been if... that had been us. So you might as well just humor me. I’m gonna be hovering for a while.”

With a small chuckle, Mac crawls under the covers. 

“You okay with the lights off?” Jack asks once they’re settled. 

“Yeah, I think we got enough SERE training hours this weekend to recert. Don’t need any extra practice.” 

Jack snaps off the lamp on his bedside table, plunging the room into darkness. 

Mac lays still, holding his breath as he listens for the comfort of Jack’s. 

“Hey, Mac,” Jack’s hand slides across the silky sheets. He takes hold of Mac's fingers and wraps them around his wrist, over his pulse. “In case it helps.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Cause knowing you’re here, that helps me.”

There’s a long pause. “You’re lying.”

“No. I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s reassuring. Your icy paws keep me tethered.”

Mac adjusts his grip, the rhythmic pulse dances across his fingers. Whether or not he believes Jack, he accepts the words and the comfort Jack offers him. “Good night, Jack.”

“‘Night, hoss.” 


End file.
